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  • Writer's pictureLeann Shamash

Morning Glory

Updated: Aug 22, 2021

Morning Glory

Your seed is as hard as stone.

Around you, seeds burst and grow

Swiftly upwards they climb.

They bid farewell to the soil under them,

to the ants and the worms.

You lie in the ground

and wait.

Days later, maybe weeks,

the soil is damp around you as you swell.

One damp morning

you feel the bonds around you


and you are free.

Your first roots reach down into the soil.

They direct food and water to you as you grow.

Your head knocks and pushes

and you begin your climb.

You are surrounded by thick and hairy stems.

Your aunts and cousins tower above you

swaying in the breeze.

You sense that you must find the sun

Your growing point prods and searches.

It finds tiny openings of sun and sky above

between your aunts and cousins.

You stretch now and swirl

around and around

until you find a place to hold and

you clasp onto the sturdy stem of a kind aunty.

“Auntie, may I share this space with you?”you ask.

She smiles down on you from above and she nods.

You twist from cousin to cousin in the field.

You hold on and twirl.

Around green leaves and stems.

Your hold is firm as you clasp

and then you keep seeking.

And your journey continues

as you quietly thread your way through the garden.

The breeze blows and time passes

And between their sheltering leafs and stems,

tiny twisted tunnels of color nuzzle close to you,

wrapped as tight as a swaddled babes.

They coil and spring along the path of your many cousins

Each delicate coil waits for its cue to unfurl.

And one morning

as the crickets chirp,

as the sun smiles warm between the clouds

painting the garden gold,

the unfurling begins.

Each tiny coil begins to unwind

gracefully, silently;

and slowly the petals open

revealing treasures,

a surprise to all.


with color as blue as the sky

as brilliantly purple as a rainbow,

as delicate as a spider’s thread;

gossamer wings open to the sun.

“Good morning” you whisper to the sky.

“We have arrived.”

And the clouds travel lazily through the blue sky as though in assent .

“Greetings, jewels of the earth,” they reply.

And your flowers and the sky silently mirror one another.

Blues and purples and whites.

They speak in the language of flowers and sky.

But such brilliance is but fleeting

as beauty often is.

By noontime the blue dancers have shyly retreated,

winding their gossamer petals

tightly around themselves,

they look inward once again.

They coil tightly, gracefully,


Their beauty once again hidden from us

and from the sky above.

Why do you hide, morning glory?

And you and your twisted dancers patiently wait,

Folded between your aunts and cousins of the field.

You wait for another morning to dawn,

for another chance to open,

to blossom,

to be strong,

to dance before the sun,

to mirror the clouds in a morning dance

and then again to coil and bow

until another day.

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